


Maybe Tomorrow Will Be a Better Day (If You Let Me Look at Your Beautiful Eyes)

by TheWinterSldier



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale has some emotions about Crowley's eyes, Aziraphale stays with Crowley, Crowley's Trial, First Kiss, M/M, Slow Burn Lasting 6000 Years Finally Comes to a Head, The Dinner (TM), Through the Years, after the apocalypse, aziraphale's pov, but then again, don't we all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 06:06:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19806280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWinterSldier/pseuds/TheWinterSldier
Summary: Aziraphale hadn't really put much thought into how Crowley saw the world from behind darkened lenses, until he borrowed his body and experienced it for himself. He has some emotions, and finally admits to himself that he has had these emotions for a while. He then admits it to Crowley.Basically idiots in love finally communicate.





	Maybe Tomorrow Will Be a Better Day (If You Let Me Look at Your Beautiful Eyes)

The first time Aziraphale met Crowley (or, Crawley, as he had gone by then), he knew he was looking into the eyes of a demon. It was clear to see what he was, but Aziraphale still spoke to him as he would anyone else, relatively. He wasn’t afraid of him like some angels feared demons, and he didn’t despise him immediately the way most angels despised demons as soon as they laid eyes on them.

The next few times, again he saw a demon, but that initial label started to fade into a second thought. He was Crowley now (slightly different name, same snark). He was Crowley first, and a demon second. Eventually it was almost completely irrelevant. They ran into each other a lot, Aziraphale doing Good and Crowley doing Bad, essentially cancelling each other out. The places they visited always ended up being the same levels of Good and Bad as they had been when they arrived. They were equally matched, and Aziraphale started to think of Crowley as an adversary. A worthy one, certainly. But not one he should destroy or that would try to destroy him. There was really no need for all that unpleasantness. They both did their jobs, despite Crowley’s insistence that it would be easier if they both just stayed home considering that the Bad Crowley did eliminated Aziraphale’s Good, and vice versa. It was more like a friendly rivalry than an actual enmity. As much as he tried not to admit it, Aziraphale actually started to look forward to catching a glimpse of red hair in the crowd at what he was sure would be a historically important event. They always ended up finding each other. At first it was all pure coincidences, and then it wasn’t.

Then they weren’t adversaries.

There was still an element of friendly rivalry (they were natural enemies, after all), but it because more ‘friendly’, less ‘rivalry’. Crowley clearly wasn’t putting any considerable effort into his Bad deeds anymore, and if Aziraphale was honest with himself he wasn’t sure he himself was putting in the right amount of effort in his Good deeds. He was too busy enjoying the simple pleasures of Earth that so many humans took for granted instead. And it seemed Crowley was too.

The day Crowley took on the title of ‘friend’ in Aziraphale’s mind was probably centuries earlier, but the first time he remembered thinking of Crowley as a _close_ friend – possibly even his _best_ friend – was some time in the 1650s, when chocolate had just been brought to England. Aziraphale was yet to try it, but it sounded delicious. He really wanted to get his hands on some, but he thought it risky to use his miracles in order to do so. Head Office would surely not be pleased.

They found themselves sat on a dock together after nightfall. They had both had a long day; Crowley had convinced a man to leave his wife and children for a woman he had been sleeping with, and Aziraphale had persuaded the same man to leave every penny he had to said family before he left, so that they would not starve to death without him.

He could have probably convinced him to stay, but he could very clearly see that Crowley had barely been trying when he whispered into the man’s ear about the freedoms he would have without his family tying him down. Any man who could be drawn so easily away from his family by Crowley’s not-even-half attempt at persuasion did not deserve the love and devotion his wife handed over so willingly to him. Aziraphale could feel the love radiating from her, reaching out to him, but he felt nothing from the man in return. They were better off without him; his money was the only good he could offer her and their two darling little children.

There was a part of Aziraphale that wanted to believe that Crowley knew that. The man had been sleeping with others for months now, almost a year. He liked to believe that Crowley also saw that the woman and her children would be better off without him, and Crowley was aware he was doing Good.

Aziraphale could never seek confirmation, though. Even if that was what happened, Crowley would never admit to it.

The angel had watched the boat sail away with the man and the woman he had been cheating on his wife with, and he didn’t have to turn to know that Crowley had stepped up beside him. He recognised his energy; the way humans can tell which of their family members were ascending the stairs by their slight differences in footfalls. His scent too, it was always the same, and his warmth. Crowley was always warm, he radiated it, but not in a sweltering, suffocating way that made it uncomfortable to stand too close. It was quite the opposite, it was almost soothing, but Aziraphale tried to tell himself it was just because it was familiar to him by now, and there was no other reason.

Neither of them said a word, they didn’t need to. Everyone else milled around the docks as the last few ships came in and went out, and then they were alone. Aziraphale expected some more spiel about how they really should just both stay home, considering the effects they have on each other’s work and the work’s overall outcome. Instead, Crowley sat on the edge of the dock, and Aziraphale found himself following the demon’s lead.

“Couldn’t cancel out what I did this time?” Crowley asked teasingly in place of a typical greeting, and Aziraphale rolled his eyes as he brushed some dirt from the thigh of his trousers.

“I didn’t want to. He didn’t deserve that poor girl.”

If Aziraphale had a death wish, he may have drawn attention to the fact that he was pretty sure Crowley nodded. Just a little, hardly perceptible, but quite possibly real. Aziraphale had grown very perceptive to Crowley over the years. Maybe he had just nodded to show that he heard him and accepted Aziraphale’s reasoning, but maybe he nodded because he agreed, and maybe that was why he had done it in the first place.

Again, Aziraphale could never ask for confirmation.

“Any other Good Deeds on the horizon that I should be on the look-out for a way to thwart?” He sounded like he was teasing again as he leant back on his hands, his legs dangling in the air off the edge of the dock.

“Not at the moment.” Aziraphale almost felt guilty about his answer, so he quickly followed it up by returning the question.

Crowley also had no plans in mind to serve his side.

“Have you tried chocolate yet?” Crowley asked after a moment of companionable silence, seemingly out of nowhere, and Aziraphale finally looked at him properly.

His head was tilted back like he was looking up at the sky, but his eyes were closed. He wondered how he was hiding them nowadays, looking around for any sign of the bifocals with oddly dark lenses that Crowley had made for himself centuries ago. Aziraphale had seen him wear them through the years since he moved west of Jerusalem, but he didn’t see them now and it made him strangely nervous. There were witch hunters everywhere recently, Aziraphale didn’t think they would take too kindly to be seeing a man with snake-like eyes. Even if he informed them that he wasn’t a witch, Aziraphale didn’t suppose ‘demon’ would go down any better. It’s not like he was worried about him, Crowley was a demon after all, he could take care of himself. There was very little that humans could do to hurt him in any substantial way; even if they killed his human form he would surely get another one when he returned to Hell, and he would be sent back up to Earth to continue the good – or, more accurately, _Bad_ – work he had been lying to his superiors about doing. The humans wouldn’t be able to get rid of him for good.

Except if they used Holy Water, which of course would instantly destroy Crowley if so much as a drop touched his pale skin. And humans used Holy Water in exorcisms.

Aziraphale tried not to think about it. Crowley was relatively intelligent, he believed. He wouldn’t let anyone get close enough to him with the stuff to cause any harm.

Besides, Aziraphale _shouldn’t_ be worried about him anyway, morally speaking. His kind shouldn’t care about Crowley’s kind. He was a demon. He was Bad.

But… He wasn’t. Not really. He was Crowley first, then a friend, _then_ a demon.

“No, although I would like to. I’ve heard it is lovely.” Aziraphale eventually answered the question when he saw the slight downward tug of confusion on Crowley’s lips in response to his silence.

Crowley shifted his weight to balance on the one hand closest to Aziraphale, then brought his other hand around. By the time it reached the angel, his hand was no longer empty. He was holding a metal tin, and Aziraphale frowned at it, then at Crowley.

“Is this a trick? Is there something horrible in there?”

Crowley just rolled his bright eyes – the sight of which caused a strange feeling in Aziraphale’s chest – then sat up so that he could free his other hand and pop open the lid. Inside were little brown, rectangular chunks, and Aziraphale leant down a little closer to the _heavenly_ smell.

“Don’t just sniff it, Angel, take one.” Crowley sounded exasperated, but it didn’t seem to bother him that much as Aziraphale did as instructed, possibly a little too eagerly.

It tasted just as delightful as he had imagined, even more so. He finished the piece he had taken and glanced at the tin Crowley had put down on the wood between them. Unintentionally. Crowley rolled his eyes again, but Aziraphale was pretty sure there was a ghost of a smile on his lips as he gestured to the tin, silently granting him permission to take another.

In return, Aziraphale miracled up a bottle of wine for Crowley. They both ate chocolate, and they both drank and laughed about previous encounters.

By the time the sun began to rise and Crowley’s eyes once again disappeared behind dark glass, Crowley had taken on the title of Aziraphale’s closest friend, even if only in the angel’s mind.

* * *

He became so much more to him the more they knew each other, but Crowley was very good at keeping his cards close to his chest. He admitted he enjoyed spending time with Aziraphale only a handful of times, no more than five.

The very first time was when they were both aboard a pirate ship – Crowley as the pirate Captain’s crew member at first, then right-hand man, and Aziraphale as a naval officer the Captain had taken prisoner – and they had drunk way too much rum together through the bars of Aziraphale’s cell. Either one of them could have gotten him out, but he was hoping to invoke a little case of Lima Syndrome, in which the Captain would grow to like him and Aziraphale could convince him to change his ways. It was going to be much harder than he had thought, he realised when he recognised Crowley beside the Captain at the helm of the ship, his yellow eyes covered by the gauze bandages wrapped over them like a blindfold. A part of him was actually concerned for a moment, thinking something awful had happened to him, but then he realised they were just to cover how unusual they were to humans, and instead he became concerned about whether or not Crowley could see through the bandages every time he watched him walk beside the Captain along the ship. Then he overheard him speaking to the crew, claiming to them that he was stabbed in the eyes by a rival pirate and blinded. Aziraphale knew then that he could see through the bandage, when Crowley had insisted that his other senses were heightened because he was blind, and the rest of the crew spent the entire day trying to land a punch on him without Crowley managing to duck out of the way first. None of them succeeded, much to Aziraphale’s secret amusement, and Crowley was promoted to the Captain’s right-hand man on the spot, much to Aziraphale’s annoyance.

Speaking of the Captain; whenever Aziraphale thought that he was getting through to the man, not even an hour later he would see Crowley cupping a hand around his ear, whispering sinful suggestions that the Captain nodded along to.

It was starting to grate on him. Why did Crowley always have to go after the same target as Aziraphale? He understood when it was only Adam and Eve, but there were so many people on this planet now, and yet they always ended up in the same place. It wasn’t fair. Crowley didn’t even care about his duties, he probably wouldn’t even report this back to Hell. What did they care if he managed to convince one Evil man to continue being Evil?

It made no difference to Crowley, but converting a blood-thirsty pirate who was well-respected within the pirate community and somewhat of a trend-setter would certainly reflect well on the angel.

Their interactions on the ship had been their usual friendly banter in the beginning, on the rare occasions they were alone together and could actually behave like they knew each other – usually in the middle of the night when the rest of the crew had drunk themselves into a stupor. But the more time Aziraphale spent locked in a cage so small that he couldn’t even stand up, with taunts being thrown at him and nothing to occupy his mind, the more agitated he became.

Crowley had made some joke to him in passing – quietly, barely above a whisper so as not to draw any attention to them – that they were on their way to loot a small village. He said there were lots of wooden houses there, so plenty to burn, and Aziraphale snapped just a little.

“Oh, go away, you menace.” He whispered sharply, and Crowley actually seemed taken aback.

Aziraphale wasn’t naïve enough to believe that his attempted insult had been cutting. If anything, Crowley would probably take it as a compliment to be called a menace. That’s what he was supposed to be, anyway. It was his tone that had surprised him. In all the time they had known each other, Aziraphale had indeed snapped at him before, but it was usually with no real anger or venom behind the words. Mostly just exasperation or moral indignation on behalf of the Good side, never because Crowley had upset him personally.

Crowley recovered quickly and he did go away, with a shrug, as if he didn’t care that Aziraphale was upset.

That was fine by him. Even if he thought of Crowley as a friend, that didn’t mean Crowley felt the same way. It wasn’t as if Aziraphale had ever voiced that title to him, he couldn’t quite bring himself to say it. As much as it was true that Aziraphale saw Crowley as a friend first and a demon second, others would not see it the same way. Every other angel would see a demon first, and anything else never. It was probably for the best that Crowley didn’t think him a friend in return, neither of their bosses would be very happy about it.

But then Crowley came to him after the rest of the crew had passed out in the sleep room, with a few bottles of the Captain’s finest rum. He had taken off the bandage he usually had wrapped around both his eyes to hide them from the others.

His eyes looked as if they were almost glowing in the low candlelight around them, the yellow complimented beautifully by the orange of his shaggy hair framing his face, and Aziraphale tried his best not to get drawn into them as he huffed and looked away, crossing his arms.

“Come on, Angel.” Crowley coaxed quietly, shaking the bottle of liquid where he held it out to him between the bars. “You know how this works.”

Aziraphale just huffed again.

“I can’t stop trying to make them do Bad any more than you can stop trying to make them do Good. That’s how this goes.”

A distant part of Aziraphale’s mind was surprised that Crowley was even putting in the effort to get him to speak to him, let alone being this patient and level-headed about it.

Still, he was feeling particularly stubborn that day. It wasn’t like there was anything else for him to do in that godforsaken crate.

“Wanna stretch your legs?” Crowley offered, but it was met with stubborn silence again so he sighed and put the bottle down on the inside of Aziraphale’s cage, beside his crossed legs, then retracted his hand to pull the cork from his own.

They sat in silence for about ten minutes, then Aziraphale let out a sigh of defeat when he realised Crowley wasn’t going to get bored and leave, and picked up the bottle.

He winced at the taste.

“Not the quality you’re used to, eh?” Crowley teased quietly, almost unsure, but Aziraphale chuckled and drank some more, so Crowley flashed his usual smirk in return.

Aziraphale admitted why he was so snappy, that his mind was starved for entertainment and he didn’t want to risk using a miracle in case the Captain questioned how he got a book that he would no doubt know had never been on the ship, and Crowley warned him not to piss off the Captain. Not that he could hurt the angel in any way that would stick, but if Aziraphale wanted even the fraction of a chance to convince the Captain to change his ways, he would have to continue to play nice.

“The Captain can hold a grudge.” Crowley muttered before taking a swig of his drink, his voice sounding oddly haunted considering it was coming from a demon.

Aziraphale thought back to a remark Crowley had made long ago about humans being the best at torturing humans, coming up with the best possible ways of making each other miserable without the need for demonic intervention. In response to the memory, he thought it wise not to comment on the tone of Crowley’s voice when he gave that advice, and Crowley was silently grateful.

They finished their respective bottles, then popped open some more until they had drunk the Captain’s entire stash. They had to keep hushing each other to avoid getting caught as they laughed together, and Aziraphale admitted aloud that being a prisoner on the ship wasn’t so bad with Crowley there. Crowley admitted then that he wouldn’t have bothered staying so long if Aziraphale wasn’t there. He admitted he enjoyed spending time with him. He breathed the confession with his forehead against the bars of the cage, and with the liquid courage (or stupidity, he wasn’t sure) of the alcohol coursing through his veins, Aziraphale leant forward. He pressed his forehead against the same bar Crowley’s was against, in an imitation of resting their foreheads together. The inches of thickness that made up the thick metal of the bars were all that kept their skin apart, and it struck Aziraphale that his face had never been this close to Crowley’s face before. The yellows of his eyes weren’t all-encompassing anymore, he noticed. They looked a little more… human, almost. The yellow looked like irises (though large irises), with whites surrounding them. His pupils were still the same, still thin and slit vertical.

 _Still beautiful_ , Aziraphale thought, then quickly pulled back, like the thought had physically shoved itself between them to force space there. Crowley looked a little surprised, but the flash of it quickly cleared from his expression as he sat back a little to widen that space more, and they fell back into casual conversation about nothing of any importance for another hour or so.

Once they had returned the alcohol and sobered up, Crowley turned with his back pressed to the bars of Aziraphale’s cage so that the angel could secure the bandages around his eyes for him. It wasn’t that Crowley needed any help doing it, he had done it himself plenty of times already, but Aziraphale had offered without thinking and Crowley had accepted the offer of assistance with a nonchalant shrug. Aziraphale was careful not to tangle any of Crowley’s shaggy ginger hair in the knot, and also careful not to let himself dwell on how soft and well-cared-for said hair was despite the dirt and grime surrounding them. Or the slight mourning feeling he experienced when he covered Crowley’s eyes.

“Goodnight, Angel.” He whispered as he blew out the final candle in the room and sauntered over to the stairs back up to the cabin of pirates where he was supposed to be sleeping alongside them.

“Goodnight, Crowley.” Aziraphale whispered back with a smile as he tucked away the book Crowley had stolen from another crew member for him, hiding it inside his jacket and close to his heart.

Yes, he was certainly his best friend first. The title of ‘demon’ had starting to fall lower and lower on the list of words Aziraphale would use to describe Crowley.

* * *

They saved the world.

They should be happy, but Aziraphale found himself in mourning.

Crowley had offered to have him stay at his apartment with him, but Aziraphale wanted to see what was left of his beloved shop first. He offered to meet Crowley at his flat, the trip wouldn’t exactly be a fun one, but Crowley had insisted on coming with him. Secretly, Aziraphale appreciated that.

Crowley had been there when it burned, he had seen the wreckage as it unfolded around him. If he thought Aziraphale would benefit from the company when he saw it, Aziraphale would trust his judgement on that. They knew each other well enough to gage what each other’s reaction would be in most cases, he liked to believe.

They got a taxi from the bus station and Crowley handed the required fare over silently, not even bothering to miracle them out of having to pay. It must have been bad, Aziraphale was sure, if Crowley was adhering to Earthly rules. Or any rules, for that matter.

The outside looked bad enough, and Aziraphale wasn’t sure how long he stood on the sidewalk with Crowley a warm and solidifying presence beside him before he willed himself to step forward and up the steps to what was once A.Z. Fell and Co. Crowley never said a word, never even fidgeted or sighed beside him as he waited as long as Aziraphale needed, for which the angel was grateful.

The inside was worse.

Not a single book was salvageable besides the one that Crowley had snatched from the flames as they crackled and scorched everything else. Scraps of paper burnt around the edges with snippets of made-up worlds he adored littered the floors. His favourite chair to read in was held up by how tightly compacted the ashes were alone. Crowley’s favourite blanket to curl up with when he visited was nowhere to be seen, and therefore likely to have been burnt completely out of existence.

It shouldn’t bother him as much as it does, it could have been so much worse. The world could have ended, he and Crowley could have been killed or forced to fight against each other on opposite sides of a pointless war over nothing.

But as he was about to say just that, about to shake off any melancholy he felt and plaster on a fake smile with a “ _what’s done is done”_ , he looked at Crowley. He looked upset too as he looked around his friend’s shop.

Maybe it was just because he was trying to be sympathetic towards Aziraphale, but he had a feeling it was more likely to have something to do with the state he had found Crowley in when he had been without a body. Drunk, alone, an emotional wreck, sobbing about losing his best friend.

Even though he hadn’t and Aziraphale was stood right there, this was the place Crowley had thought he had lost him. This was where he had felt that massive pain, that heartbreak. It was also the place they had spent many evenings together talking until sunrise about anything and everything, and just having _fun_ together. Though Crowley had no interest in the books it once held, this was his best friend’s favourite place, and it was all but destroyed.

 _Of course_ Crowley was hurting too. And that made Aziraphale hurt more.

He stepped over a stack of ashes that was once a series of detective novels and wrapped his arms tight around Crowley, one around his shoulders and one around his middle. Crowley hesitated for a moment, but after whatever internal battle about it he was fighting inside his head was done, he allowed his own arms to come up around the angel in return, to hug him back just as tight. There was no way of knowing whether or not Crowley was crying behind those dark glasses sealed around his eyes, but it was very clear that Aziraphale was crying against the shoulder of Crowley’s jacket.

“I know it’s ridiculous…” He muttered against the dark fabric after a moment, and Crowley just held him a little tighter in response. “We saved the world today… Avoided so much destruction. This is… This is a small destruction in comparison.”

He figured if he reasoned it out loud and Crowley agreed, it would make it easier to accept the reasoning. It didn’t help to say it, and Crowley clearly didn’t agree with it.

“It’s a personal destruction.” Crowley muttered, his cheek pressed to the side of Aziraphale’s head so that he could feel the muscle in Crowley’s cheek jump as he clenched his jaw. “It’s not fair.”

Aziraphale couldn’t argue with that, and he nodded a little as he cried more.

He agreed to stay with Crowley, insisting it was just until he got himself back on his feet. Crowley didn’t mind, and the only payment he asked for was that Aziraphale got rid of the puddle of Holy Water in the doorway to one of the rooms for him. He did so, happily, glad that the Holy Water he had given him decades ago had been used to _protect_ Crowley as opposed to a means of hurting himself.

Crowley insisted that he re-bottle it so that they could keep it, in case the need for it was ever to arise again. Aziraphale reluctantly agreed. It went back into Crowley’s safe, and Crowley showed him to the bedroom after Aziraphale had thoroughly cleaned his hands to be sure that no Holy Water lingered there.

“You can take it.”

“What? Oh no, that’s alright, it’s yours.” Aziraphale insisted.

Neither of them needed to sleep, so it wasn’t like they particularly needed a bedroom or a bed. Crowley enjoyed it more than Aziraphale, the angel didn’t see the point of engaging in unnecessary Sloth by sleeping despite not being required to. He argued this, but Crowley shot back that the bed was very comfortable and after the week they had had Aziraphale might feel better after some needless Sloth. They came to a compromise, and agreed that whichever of them wanted to use it at any given time, if it was free, could use it.

They even shook on it, and Aziraphale beamed at him as Crowley rolled his eyes and continued his tour. Aziraphale had only been there a handful of times, and every time he had only been by the door waiting for Crowley to finish getting ready so that they could go out together when the weather was too dreadful to wait outside, and whenever they were going somewhere closer to Crowley’s apartment than his shop. It would make no sense for Crowley to drive to pick Aziraphale up, just to go back the way he came. The environment was taking enough damage nowadays as it was, Aziraphale didn’t feel right being the reason behind the Bentley’s excessive carbon footprint.

He had half expected the apartment to be all black and depressing the first time he had stepped out of that elevator, but then he remembered Crowley complaining about Hell for those specific reasons – as well as his love for plants, which did best in the light – and suddenly the huge windows and lighter colour scheme made sense. As did the minimalism, Aziraphale noted as he remembered Crowley complaining about how cramped and crowded hell was.

* * *

Aziraphale soon found out exactly how cramped and crowded and dark and _depressing_ Hell was. He could barely see anything at all under the dim light, combined with the sunglasses Crowley always wore. He really hoped he had interpreted Agnes Nutter’s prophecy correctly, but he tried not to dwell on it as he followed the demons through the sweltering, smelly corridors. There had been a part of him once that wondered if Crowley’s heat and scent was a result of living in Hell, but now he knew it certainly wasn’t. He was never this hot, this stiflingly hot that made Aziraphale’s – or, technically Crowley’s – lungs feel crushed as he forced in a deep breath that he didn’t really need but still appreciated. And Crowley always smelled lovely, like smoky wood fireplaces with a hint of something sweet and pleasant that even after 6,000 years Aziraphale couldn’t quite place. Not like sweat and sulphur and _Evil._

He hoped Crowley was okay. He would be speaking with Gabriel and the other archangels by now. Their bodies had been created by Heaven and Hell respectively, and Aziraphale really hoped that didn’t affect Crowley’s imperviousness to Hellfire or Aziraphale’s indifference to Holy Water. He also hoped Crowley wasn’t afraid, because Aziraphale certainly was, under the false bravado he was putting on to imitate Crowley.

 _‘Don’t forget to slouch, Angel_ ’ Crowley’s voice echoed in his head from the brief training session they had given each other in how to act like the other enough to avoid getting caught out. ‘ _And throw out some jokes.’_

“Hey guys. Nice place you got here.”

“Not for you it won’t be.” Lord Beelzebub quipped back.

“Could do with some houseplants. Maybe a coffee table.” As much as the white expanses of Crowley’s apartment had reminded Aziraphale a touch too much of Heaven, he longed for it now. He now understood wholeheartedly why Crowley hated it down here so much, and why his apartment was the polar opposite of everything in Hell. Not even Crowley’s thriving houseplants could have made this place any better.

“Silence! The prisoner shall approach.”

“Love to.” He was getting very good at this false confidence thing. A glance down at his – Crowley’s – hands showed that they weren’t even shaking.

“So, four of us. Rubber of Bridge? Barbershop quartet?” Aziraphale wasn’t even sure if Crowley knew what Bridge was, but thankfully no one questioned it.

“The trial of a traitor?”

He questioned who would be taking the role of who in this ‘trial’, though in reality they had skipped that bit and jumped straight to execution.

_‘Lord Beelzebub will be there. Hastur will too, he wouldn’t miss the chance to see me destroyed. The other will probably be Dagon.’_

Aziraphale got the name right, thankfully. It would definitely raise suspicions if he got the name of Crowley’s colleague ( _former_ colleague) wrong.

They reeled off Crowley’s numerous crimes – or, at least, what _they_ saw as crimes – and Aziraphale found himself looking down under the dark glasses he wore.

So much of Crowley was the exact opposite of Aziraphale, inside as well as out, but Aziraphale hadn’t taken as much interest in it lately. He hardly noticed their differences anymore, which made it even more intriguing when he found himself staring at the hands tied in front of him. Crowley had such lovely hands; long, slender fingers so different to the short chubby fingers he was used to seeing when he looked down at himself. And whereas Aziraphale’s body was more rounded, Crowley’s chest and stomach were flat and toned under the tight black shirt and perfectly tailored blazer he wore.

He didn’t understand how Crowley wore trousers so tight though, or how he managed to see anything in Hell under those glasses. Even without them Aziraphale was sure he would struggle; with them, he was starting to feel a little claustrophobic and paranoid in the darkness. But Crowley said he always wore them, even in Hell, so ‘ _don’t take them off without a good reason, they’ll notice’._

They finished listing his crimes, and a chorus of ‘guilty’ could be heard from the positively _delighted_ spectators behind them.

This really was awful.

At least in Heaven Aziraphale was pretty sure it would only be the Archangels present in a sparse room. The destruction would still be bad, but at least it would be a private affair. There was still the possibility of holding on to some dignity. It seemed as though the whole of Hell had gathered in sadistic glee to watch Crowley die, cheering on the judge and shouting out heckles telling them to get on with it so that they could ‘ _get to the best bit’_. He made Aziraphale’s chest hurt, thinking about how this would have gone if he hadn’t figured out the prophecy and decided that they should switch places, if Crowley had been in the middle of all this with the knowledge that he was really about to die, instead of Aziraphale knowing he was relatively likely to get out alive.

He didn’t want to think of Crowley stood in front of his ( _former_ ) boss with hundreds of his ( _former_ ) colleagues practically begging to witness his final death, jumping up and down in excitement as Michael arrived and began pouring the Holy Water into the bath. Even if he didn’t want to, he felt he owed it to Crowley to try to imagine how this would feel to him. He imagined that the Holy Water was Hellfire, the angelic equivalent in terms of fatality. He imagined that the people around them were angels and they were all so delighted to not only know that Aziraphale was about to die, but to be able to see it for themselves like some free entertainment and take pleasure in it.

It hurt, even if they both strongly disliked their colleagues, to feel so much hate and visceral directed at him, especially during such an upsetting time. It hurt even more knowing that it wasn’t really directed at him, it was directed at his beloved Crowley. It hurt thinking of Crowley being so scared and having all of this going on around him, adding to the fear and distress.

If this worked, and they both met up again on that bench in St James’ park tomorrow as they had planned, Aziraphale was going to risk breaking some of Crowley’s bones with the strength of the hug he was going to give him, once they had switched bodies back and he could feel it as himself.

His ribs would heal just fine, and hopefully some of the pain he had suffered from his time in Hell would too.

Crowley loved this jacket, Aziraphale knew that. It wasn’t new, he had had it for a few years now, but he told the demons it was and insisted he didn’t want to ruin it. Really, he wanted to keep it far away from Holy Water so that none of the Blessing would seep into the material and make it too dangerous for Crowley to wear it again.

Lord Beelzebub, Hastur, and Dagon all rolled their eyes as the rope fell from Aziraphale’s wrists – _Crowley’s_ wrists, so much thinner than Aziraphale was used to seeing on himself, and already raw and bruising slightly from the tightness of the rope – and they waited for him to take the jacket off. He handed it to Dagon reluctantly, and she snatched it from his hand. He did the same with the shirt, trying not to look too closely at what appeared to everyone else to be his own arms, then his boots. He kicked them off, resisting the urge to aim for Lord Beelzebub. It would only push them to speed along the process in anger, and that would ruin the skinny jeans that Crowley was so fond of.

He tried _very_ hard not to look too closely at Crowley’s toned legs and—well, other areas of his body.

Once he had stripped down to the black underclothes Crowley had worn for this specific reason – so he wouldn’t be completely exposing himself to everyone in Hell – Aziraphale followed Lord Beelzebub’s pointing finger and stepped into the room Michael had exited from, containing the bath full of Holy Water, and handed the sunglasses over to another demon he didn’t know the name of on his way. He stopped for only half a second, to brace himself in case the Holy Water destroyed the body that at any other time belonged to a demon, and the crowd went mad. They were so excited, and that aching feeling was back as he imagined Crowley, terrified, facing certain death, having to hear all of that and see them all so close, grinning and whooping with joy.

As he stepped up to the bath, the demons were barely inches away from the far edge of the innocent-looking porcelain, the only thing stopping them from pushing him in being a thin layer of glass and the promise that he would be in the Water soon enough.

He almost sent out a prayer, but he suspected that it wouldn’t help him. Instead, he thought of Crowley, whom right now was probably facing a pillar of Hellfire, most likely feeling the same concerns as Aziraphale was.

 _‘I’ll see you soon, my dear boy.’_ He thought, even though there was no way Crowley would hear him. Then, he straddled either side of the tub with Crowley’s long legs to avoid wetting his socks and lowered himself into the Water with surprisingly steady arms.

He almost expected the water to be cold, and maybe when Michael had brought it in it had been, but the heat of Hell was sure to warm up anything left in this atmosphere for more than five minutes. It was pleasant, actually. Just a little warmer than the skin he was currently in. There was no burn, no pain… It was all okay. It worked.

He smiled to the demons behind the glass as he lounged back in the water, then made a conscious effort to relax his back so that he wasn’t sitting as ram-rod straight as he usually preferred. He laid back against the wall of the tub and sighed in exaggerated contentment, laying long limbs over the edges. The shouts of excitement died down and grew silent, and Aziraphale smirked as he ran his fingers through the water covering his abdomen.

“I don't suppose that anywhere in the nine circles of Hell there's such a thing as a rubber duck? No?” He asked, looking out around the court that had attempted to sentence his demon to extinction.

He cracked his neck, something he was never able to do in his own body but which he had seen Crowley do plenty of times, and sighed in relief at the feeling. Okay, he would stop whining about Crowley doing that now; it really felt good. Though to Aziraphale the sound was awful, the feeling Crowley’s body got from it was worth the slight discomfort Aziraphale felt hearing it.

Michael returned for the Holy Water, and the shock on her face made him grin, filled with even more giddy relief than he had gotten from the demons’ reactions to him splashing Holy Water against the wall. He got his bath towel and winked, just like Crowley would have done if he had gotten an Archangel to miracle him a towel in a shocked daze.

They agreed it would be best to leave them alone from now on, and Lord Beelzebub agreed with a warning that he was to be a _neutral_ party, which meant no contact with angels. _Any_ angels, the demon had said pointedly, and Aziraphale agreed. They had expected as much, and hopefully Crowley was being offered the same deal at that moment by the Archangels. Lord Beelzebub then ordered his removal, muttering about how he was going to start a riot.

He dried himself off, using a very small, hardly noticeable miracle to ensure that every drop was gone before he got dressed again and walked out of Hell with his head held high. The demons all kept their distance as he walked through the halls to the main exit, some even shaking with fear when he waved at them, because he wiggled his fingers like he was going to splash them again with Water that was no longer at his fingertips. He only just remembered to grab Crowley’s sunglasses from a dazed demon on his way out.

He left Hell without a problem, and sighed in relief as he ascended the elevator. He was almost grateful for the glasses then, the contrast between the dark of Hell and the light of Earth would have been painful. He briefly wondered if that was why Crowley kept them with him even in Hell.

Aziraphale wanted to see Crowley, or at least call him and hear his – Aziraphale’s? – voice to be sure that he was okay. But he couldn’t. They had agreed, their respective former sides would be watching them, at least for the first night. They couldn’t risk breaking the deal and getting back in contact with each other immediately after leaving their attempted executions. They had to do what each other would normally do. Well, as much as they could without Crowley being able to return to the bookshop as Aziraphale and Aziraphale being able to drive the vintage Bentley at break-neck speeds down heavily pedestrianised streets as Crowley. He was thankful for that much; he would give himself away by either driving too slowly and giving away how frightened he was by the speed.

He called a cab and went back to Crowley’s apartment. Crowley would be staying in a hotel for the night, under the name A.Z. Fell. Aziraphale could feel Crowley’s phone in his pocket, and he had to fight the urge to take it out as he ignored the cab driver’s small talk. On a normal day he would have chatted back and been – as Crowley put it – ‘ _painfully’_ polite. But Crowley didn’t do that. He wasn’t particularly rude or cruel, he just gave short answers and made it very clear that he wasn’t looking for a best friend in a random taxi. A lot of taxi drivers even appreciated that.

 _‘10am, St James’, you know which bench. You had better be there.’_ Aziraphale had told him, and Crowley had nodded seriously as he held a hand out for Aziraphale to take so that they could switch bodies.

_‘See you then, Angel.’_

* * *

Aziraphale had been so sure there was no way he would have been able to sleep, but Crowley’s body was used to sleep given how much the demon enjoyed it. Aziraphale took off his jacket and scarf before toeing off his boots by the door, then headed to the bedroom. Although he was worried, as soon as he lied down on Crowley’s bed he barely had the wherewithal to take the sunglasses off and put them on the nightstand before he passed out from the stress of the past week.

He awoke to an alarm and sighed as he turned it off and burrowed into the pillow under his head. It smelled like Crowley’s shampoo, and Aziraphale smiled against the fabric before reaching up to rub his eyes. He ran his hand through his hair and startled when he felt that it was straight and silky, as opposed to his usual puffy curls. He opened his eyes and looked up, pulling the hair forward so that he could see and blinked in surprise when he saw ginger instead of white.

Realisation eventually hit him that the day before had not been a nightmare; they had really had to switch bodies so as not to be destroyed by their own sides. Another realisation hit him shortly after, that Crowley rarely set alarms on a day-to-day basis and he had a habit of sleeping as long as he felt like it. He could sleep for an entire century, Aziraphale knew from experience. The alarm that awoke him could have been set to go off a week from the events he fell asleep after. For all he knew, he could have missed their meeting time and Crowley could think Aziraphale was dead. Again.

He started panicking as he fumbled for Crowley’s phone to check the time, but a distantly logical part of his mind told him that if he hadn’t shown, Crowley probably would have come to _his own apartment_ to find him. That thought helped him relax enough to pull the phone from the inexplicably tight jeans without any resistance, then click the button on the side to display the screen. It was only eight, and it was the day they were supposed to meet.

He sighed in relief and threw on Crowley’s jacket and scarf (if you could count it as a scarf, it was so thin and useless, clearly just for style as opposed to practicality), then struggled into the snakeskin boots before rushing off. He got half-way down in the elevator before he realised he had left Crowley’s sunglasses on the nightstand, and he groaned in annoyance as he went back up to get them. He had felt odd pangs of sympathy for Crowley before, whenever he thought too closely about why he always had to wear glasses when he was out in public, but he hadn’t quite registered before how inconvenient it was and how annoying it could be to have to hide such a visible part of one’s self constantly. He even kept them on when it was just the two of them sometimes, like he occasionally forgot that it was okay to take his glasses off around the angel, and Aziraphale made a mental note to stay vigilant and remind him to take them off at times like that.

He pushed that thought away for now though, excited to see Crowley again even if he would be wearing Aziraphale’s face to begin with.

It would be difficult to get a cab at this time with people travelling to work, so he decided it would be best to leave earlier rather than later.

Maybe he had used a miracle, maybe he hadn’t, but he managed to get a taxi and that was the important thing.

He got to the park a few minutes after nine, stopping off to get a coffee first since Crowley’s body was practically screaming out for it. Really, he should have a word with the demon about his caffeine consumption because this was ridiculous.

 _If he ever saw him again_.

He shook away that thought and tossed the empty coffee cup into a nearby recycle bin before heading to the bench they had agreed to meet at. It was unoccupied at the moment, and Aziraphale forced himself not to panic. He was an hour early, after all. Crowley was rarely early, but he was also never late. Not to meet Aziraphale anyway. All he had to do was wait an hour, and he would see his fallen angel again.

He checked that no one from either side was watching him several times. He had felt demonic eyes on him since he had walked into Hell, and the feeling only went away when his consciousness did as he fell asleep on Egyptian cotton sheets.

The feeling hadn’t come back, and he couldn’t feel any angelic attention either.

It seemed as though no one was watching, which was a relief because he couldn’t bring himself to keep slouching and spreading his legs obscenely wide open like Crowley. It wasn’t that he had a problem with how Crowley typically lounged around, Aziraphale was all for him doing whatever made him comfortable. It just wasn’t comfortable to Aziraphale. Despite what others would assume by looking at him his usual sitting position – back straight, feet together, hands in his lap – it was comfortable to him.

He sat like that now, and he was sure if anyone in Hell was watching they would have either dragged him back down kicking and screaming immediately, convinced that he could no longer be Crowley, or they would have had collective heart-attacks at the image of their previous best operative sitting properly. That thought made him smile a little.

He looked around the park and frowned slightly. It was a beautiful day; he could feel the warmth through Crowley’s thin jacket and people walked around him in summer dresses and shorts as children played and young couples strolled hand-in-hand. But it was darker behind the glasses, everything slightly dimmer than Aziraphale was used to.

This was what Crowley saw all the time, and again Aziraphale felt that hint of sadness for him. His view of the world was always slightly tinted, slightly dulled. Darker. He looked up at the sky and though he could tell that it was supposed to be blue, it looked too murky to be as beautiful as he remembered. Maybe Crowley didn’t care, he had decided the world was worth saving anyway, but it bugged Aziraphale a little. He wanted him to see the Earth in all its beauty, and sure he had seen it back in the garden, before he had to hide his reptilian eyes from more and more humans as the population rose, and he could see it at night when there weren’t as many people around and the darkness offered him some cover, but it wasn’t the same.

It wasn’t fair.

He was so lost in thought, looking around and noting the differences between his memories of the world around them and what he was seeing through dark lenses, that he didn’t realise someone had sat beside him. Eventually he jumped slightly as he took notice and looked over, only to see himself. Well, his own body. He was sat with his legs open, slumped a little in the seat with an arm around the back of the bench.

“ _Crowley...”_ He whispered with a serene smile that probably looked very out-of-place on Crowley’s sharp lips.

“Shh.” Crowley hissed as well as Aziraphale’s voice would allow him to. It didn’t hold the same snake-like effect as it did when it came from his own body, but Aziraphale knew the sound well enough to know that he was serious.

They waited, but nothing happened. The Heavens didn’t open up and drag either of them up, and Hell did not break through the Earth beneath them and drop them into a bottomless pit.

They conversed briefly, wondering aloud if they would be left alone, and eventually checked one more time to make sure no one was watching. Crowley assured him that they weren’t, and Aziraphale held out his hand to take Crowley’s so that they could switch back to their own bodies.

Aziraphale shuddered slightly at the strange feeling, shaking his limbs out as he watched Crowley’s hand clench and unclench between them before dropping to the wooden bench.

Eventually they got up to leave, and as soon as they were both standing Aziraphale made good on that mental promise he had made to hug Crowley hard when he was given the chance. Crowley wasn’t surprised, almost relieved even, and he hugged back just as tight. Aziraphale wanted to ask how it had gone in Heaven, because something must have pissed Crowley off – besides the fact that they sentenced Aziraphale to death of course – in the same way that the way ‘Crowley’ had been treated in Hell had upset Aziraphale. But he didn’t ask. It was behind them, and they had much more pleasant things ahead of them.

They went to the Ritz, and it was beautiful. They ate and drank and talked. It was lovely, but Aziraphale was distracted. Not by Crowley’s previous comment about how Heaven and Hell could be gearing up for something bigger. That should have been what occupied his mind, but it wasn’t. He looked around them and wondered what the bright, pristine white dining area of the Ritz looked like to Crowley, behind the glasses.

Probably not as bright, not as beautiful, and Aziraphale’s heart ached.

“Crowley,” He started, accidentally cutting his friend off mid-sentence without thinking. He was about to apologise, but Crowley waved it off, insisting it wasn’t important.

“Go ahead, what did you want to say?”

Aziraphale looked around, then leant closer to Crowley with his hand on the table, next to Crowley’s hand curled slightly around the base of his champagne flute.

“Take off your glasses.”

He looked taken aback, and underneath said glasses he was probably blinking wide eyes rapidly. Aziraphale wanted to see them, but no matter how much he strained his eyes all he could see was his own reflection in the mirrored surfaces covering them.

“Why?” He sounded suspicious, and Aziraphale tried not to take offence.

“I want you to see how beautiful this place is.” He reasoned, but Crowley shrugged.

“I can see it just fine, Angel. These aren’t opaque, you know.”

He said it teasingly, like Aziraphale was being ridiculously dense, but Aziraphale pressed on anyway. “They darken your view. You see it darker than it is.”

“I’ve worn them long enough to be able to figure out what the original picture is.” Crowley’s voice was clipped, like he was close to taking offense in what Aziraphale was saying.

He hadn’t said anything that Crowley could take offense to, though, as far as Aziraphale could tell. He wasn’t insulting him, saying he had no idea what he was looking at. He just wanted him to see it how Aziraphale did, in all its beauty. It was a little surprising, and Aziraphale knew he had to tread lightly now. They had saved the world and defied their respective sides together so recently; they were freed today. He didn’t want to ruin it by upsetting Crowley now, however it was that he was doing so.

“I just… I don’t want you to have to figure it out. I want you to see it.” He explained, and Crowley drained his glass and put it down a bit more forcefully than necessary, making Aziraphale flinch.

Not in fear, he knew Crowley wouldn’t hurt him, but just because of the negative emotions it implied Crowley was feeling. The last thing he wanted was to upset him tonight. He wanted nothing but happiness for his demon.

_His demon._

“You said to limit miracles for the time being.” Crowley pointed out, and it was Aziraphale’s turn to look surprised, unsure of the relevance of the statement. “You already used a miracle to get us a table, we can’t use another one to clear the memories of everyone in here so they don’t run away screaming.”

“They won’t.”

“You know they will.” The words carried so much more weight and meaning to them than Aziraphale had expected, and he realised there was something implied there.

Then he remembered.

It was centuries ago. Before the humans started burning people they suspected of witchcraft and demonic activity, but when they were aware enough of it to be afraid of it. It was in a tavern. Crowley had been wearing the bifocals with dark lenses he had created long before, claiming to everyone else that they were to shield his oversensitive eyes from the sun, when really it was to shield them from the humans. The creation of sunglasses was one of the few things Crowley claimed to have done that he actually _did_ do, and despite the commendations he got for creating things he actually had no part in, this was incidentally one of the few things he had created during his time as a demon that he had _not_ gotten a commendation for.

They had run into each other by chance, the angel and the demon. Aziraphale somewhat suspiciously accepted the offer to join him for a few drinks and ended up having a wonderful time with him, then at some point Crowley had knocked into someone. His glasses fell off, and the woman he had knocked into turned and knelt to pick them up for him at the same time as he crouched for them. Their eyes met, and she screamed.

The scream had frozen Crowley in shock, wide eyed, and others turned to see the source of the scream. She ran, and so did others. Some guys tried to grab Crowley, which could have turned out to be the origin of burning supernatural beings at the stake if he hadn’t been agile enough to slip away.

Everyone scrambled to find him, and Aziraphale left quickly, knowing they wouldn’t find him in the tavern. He found Crowley two miles away sat beside a lake, watching the water with wet eyes that Aziraphale felt it best not to comment on.

The glasses were laid on the ground beside him, and Aziraphale took a seat on the bank on the other side of them, so they were between them. He had felt sympathy for him, a dull ache in his chest as he tried to imagine what that had been like for him, despite that small voice in the back of his mind telling him that it served him right for being a _demon_.

The voice sounded like Gabriel.

Aziraphale hadn’t known what to say, but he sat there with him anyway, hoping that his presence and his silence – no screaming, despite Crowley’s eyes being so clearly visible – was enough to offer some comfort.

He wondered why he hadn’t put the glasses back on yet, why he had risked walking through the town to get to the lake without them on. Then Aziraphale looked down at them closer and realised why.

They had been broken at some point, probably while the men had tried to grab him and Crowley had fought them off without using a miracle, not wanting to run the risk of freaking everyone there out more.

The arm that usually rested behind Crowley’s left ear was snapped off and the right lens was cracked.

Aziraphale picked them up, slowly so that Crowley could stop him if he wanted to, but the demon didn’t move. He held the arm against the frame where it was supposed to be and concentrated until the metal fused back together. His thumb brushed over the cracked lens and left no imperfections in its wake. Aziraphale held them out, and Crowley’s eyes dropped to look down at them.

He took them and put them on without a word, then stood and left Aziraphale sat beside the lake alone.

They never talked about it, but it was clear that that was what Crowley was referring to now, when he said everyone would run out of the building screaming.

“Not this time.” Aziraphale said with such conviction it surprised even him.

He hadn’t done anything that time, not in the moment. He had fixed the glasses for him afterwards, but when the original event occurred he had been too surprised by the reactions around him to step in and help. He had just watched in shock until he and the others in the tavern could no longer see Crowley anymore, then shook himself out of it and went looking for him.

He could have stopped everyone, cleared their memories or maybe even somehow changed their minds to believe that yellow serpentine eyes were a completely normal thing to see. But he didn’t; he had been too caught off-guard. He wouldn’t be this time. He wouldn’t let it happen again. He wouldn’t let anyone make Crowley feel ashamed of his eyes again.

The conviction had clearly surprised Crowley too, and Aziraphale held his breath as he could practically see the gears turning in Crowley’s head, trying to figure out whether to do what was asked or play it safe and refuse.

Crowley so rarely played anything safe, but Aziraphale was delightfully surprised anyway when he sighed and lifted his hands to take hold of the arms of his glasses with his index fingers and thumbs. He stayed like that for a moment, just holding them, and Aziraphale waited with all the patience in the world. He wouldn’t rush him. This was for Crowley; he would give him the courtesy of allowing him to do it in his own time.

He breathed out, then took them off. Aziraphale smiled as he watched Crowley fold the arms over and place the glasses on his napkin on the table, but Crowley’s eyes remained down so that they were obscured by his eyelids.

He waited again, but it didn’t seem like Crowley was going to look up without any prompting.

“Darling…” Aziraphale spoke softly, then reached over to gently crook a finger under Crowley’s sharp chin.

It didn’t seem like Crowley was going to allow the gentle persuasion at first, but he eventually eased up and allowed Aziraphale to tilt his head up a little. His eyes remained down for another few seconds, then he hesitantly looked up at Aziraphale. The sight shocked Aziraphale breathless.

It wasn’t the sight of his eyes that shocked him, not the colour or the shape of his pupils that he had grown so used to seeing over the years in private; it was the emotion he saw there. Crowley looked almost afraid, his eyes wide and imploring, so open and vulnerable and all that emotion was directed at _Aziraphale_. They maintained eye contact for a moment, Aziraphale’s finger moving so that his hand could cup his face, then Crowley looked away, his eyes darting around the room looking for some kind of reaction from others around them.

No one looked at them, and Aziraphale wasn’t even lying when he quietly assured Crowley that he wasn’t using a miracle to keep the other diners minding their own businesses. They were all just too wrapped up in their own meals and company to pay attention to two random men on another table.

The waiter looked a little surprised when he brought over another bottle of champagne, but when Crowley quickly looked down, the man – boy, really – didn’t bring any attention to them and didn’t mention his eyes. Aziraphale smiled at him before he smiled back and left, and though Aziraphale wasn’t psychic he was good at picking up vibes and auras, specifically emotions. And he knew that the boy had felt some kind of sympathy towards Crowley, as well as the expected surprise and though there was no fear, there was intrigue.

He probably assumed that Crowley was a human who had some kind of condition that caused his eyes to look like that. New and fascinating medical discoveries were being made every day, and the younger generation were as a whole relatively more open-minded nowadays than the generations that came before them. It wasn’t too much of a stretch to assume that there was some combination of genes that, if organised just right, could result in something like Crowley’s eyes. Aziraphale vaguely remembered seeing an article about someone with strangely shaped pupils that made them look almost slit, and made a mental note to show Crowley one day.

Crowley had clearly been bracing himself for the sounds of screams and shattered glass as the boy dropped the bottle, and he deflated visibly when it didn’t happen.

“See? It’s okay, my love.” Aziraphale spoke softly, his thumb brushing his high cheekbone as his other hand moved to cover Crowley’s on the table.

Crowley looked back up at him and breathed a sigh of relief as he smiled a little, almost shy. It was positively adorable, and Aziraphale felt himself beaming in response. “Beautiful…”

He hadn’t meant to say it out loud, he really hadn’t. It just came out as he breathed out, and he didn’t realise he had said it until Crowley’s Mali garnet eyes widened just a fraction. He expected Crowley to get mad, insist that there was no way he could be referred to as anything as pleasant as _beautiful_ , to crowd into Aziraphale’s personal space and sneer at him like he had done at Tadfield Manor when he called him ‘nice’.

Bu he didn’t. He didn’t look at all upset. He didn’t get angry.

He did get in Aziraphale’s personal space, but not to sneer or intimidate.

Aziraphale loved a lot of human customs, but one thing he had never understood was the appeal of kissing. He didn’t understand how pressing one’s lips to someone else’s could be a pleasant feeling; until he felt Crowley’s soft lips against his own.

It was brief and fleeting, and Crowley pulled away as quickly as he had shot forward, like a snake striking and retracting again just as lightning fast. Which, with Crowley concerned, was a pretty accurate analogy. He wretched his hand from underneath Aziraphale’s and quickly snatched up his glasses, shoving them back on as he pushed himself to stand and Aziraphale automatically followed suit.

“Crowley-“ Aziraphale started, but he was cut off.

“Don’t.”

“Crowley-“ He tried again.

“ _Don’t._ I know.”

“ _Crowley_!”

The demon stopped in the middle of his struggle to get his arm into the inside out arm of his jacket, but he didn’t look at him. He was still, but his head was still tilted down like he was glaring at the fabric for causing him trouble.

“Please, sit down.”

“No. You don’t have to give me the speech, it’s okay. I know.” Crowley insisted, then, much quieter, he whispered; “ _I’m sorry.”_

“Don’t be.” Aziraphale walked behind him to take the jacket by the collar, to pull it back off and put it back over Crowley’s chair. “What speech are you referring to?”

“The… The ssspeech about how you don’t like me in that way but you _truly hope we can ssstill remain friends.”_ The last part was said in a mocking imitation of Aziraphale’s voice, and he was hissing.

Those there obvious signs that Crowley was feeling way too exposed (the mocking, deflecting) and stressed (the hissing; he only did that when he forgot himself) so Aziraphale gently placed a hand on Crowley’s shoulder and pushed down, prompting him to sit back down in his chair.

Crowley went surprisingly easily, like a puppet who had had its strings abruptly cut. And he looked resigned, like he knew something torturous was coming but there was no way out of it so he might as well get it over with. That was what upset Aziraphale the most, that Crowley seemed prepared for Aziraphale to hurt him. Today of all days.

“Crowley… How long?” Aziraphale asked once he had taken his own seat and scooted closer to Crowley.

The demon remained silent, but Aziraphale had all night. He could wait, especially for this.

“A little while.” Crowley muttered with a shrug, and it was clear to see that it physically pained him to admit it and be so open with him.

Aziraphale wasn’t going to leave him suffering for too long, that would just be cruel. And whereas Crowley was right about Aziraphale being a bit of a bastard, he wasn’t a sadist. And Crowley was just about the only being in the world, Heaven or Hell who Aziraphale would never want to cause any pain to. He had had enough of that already.

Aziraphale had read plenty of books that involved kissing, it was hard to avoid romance no matter what genre one read, but he had very little practical experience in it.

But he had also been in Madame Tracy’s head, and she had been a library of experiences. Some that Aziraphale felt a little violated with the knowledge of, but some that could very much come in handy.

He lifted his hand and tried to ignore the sting he felt when Crowley flinched slightly but didn’t move away, like he expected Aziraphale to hurt him but wasn’t going to stop him from doing so; as if he felt he deserved to be hurt right now. Instead, he cupped his face again, just as softly and tenderly as he had done earlier, and leant forward.

This time the kiss was slower. He gave Crowley ample time to pull away or stop him if needed, but Aziraphale was happy to see him remain still. He pressed their lips together, but Crowley remained tense, like he was frozen in place.

It was still nice to be so close, but Aziraphale pulled back after a moment to speak soft words of comfort. “This isn’t a trick, love.”

That was all he had to say. When they kissed this time neither of them were too surprised to react. A dam broke in Crowley, and he almost tipped his chair over with the sudden force of which he trying to scoot it closer to him so that he could wrap an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders. Aziraphale’s hand not cupping Crowley’s face dropped to the seat of Crowley’s chair beside his slim thighs to push it solidly to the ground, to prevent him falling, and he chuckled quietly against Crowley’s lips. That made Crowley smiled a little too, then he deepened the kiss.

Aziraphale sort of knew what it felt like to have another’s tongue flick against his lips and eventually into his mouth, through his perusing in Madame Tracy’s head, but he never would have guessed from those second-hand memories alone how _amazing_ it would feel to have Crowley do it.

They were reaching an indecent level of public displays of affection, so Aziraphale reluctantly broke the kiss, but kept his hands where they were on Crowley’s face and seat.

He had wanted to do that for so long, and judging by the slightly dazed expression on Crowley’s face and the vague answer he had given in reply to Aziraphale’s question about just how long he had felt this way about the angel, he assumed that Crowley had been waiting just as long.

“When you gave away your sword.” Crowley exhaled, and it took Aziraphale a moment to register what he said and what it could mean.

“Oh…” He eventually replied, trying not to let his disappointment show. It was only two days ago that Aziraphale had given the delivery man the sword he had gotten back off of War after that delightful little girl had destroyed her with the power of her belief in peace. Crowley had only liked him _like that_ for two days, whereas Aziraphale had loved him for nearly a century.

Crowley sensed the disappointment, and he looked torn between annoyed and saddened that his admission hadn’t been met with a warmer response. Then realisation seemed to hit, and he groaned as he moved a hand from where it was resting on Aziraphale’s bicep to cover his face in exasperation.

“ _The first time.”_

“Oh...” Aziraphale repeated, still somewhat confused.

 _Oh! Oh, the_ first _time! When he gave it to Adam! The original Adam!_

“That long?” He breathed in surprise, and Crowley shrugged.

“I think…” His hand moved away from his face and ran through his hair, messing it out of the stylish coif slightly, into something a little less immaculate but all the more endearing. “Maybe it wasn’t love then, it could have just been extreme fondness… But it was really early on, I know that.”

Aziraphale kissed him again, and the next twenty minutes was a blur of cash being exchanged, climbing into the back of a car, an elevator, and between it all Crowley’s lips and tongue and teeth against his own.

They ended up back at Crowley’s flat, and as soon as the doors closed behind them Aziraphale pushed the demon against a wall. Crowley seemed very approving of this, but before that smirk he was wearing could press against Aziraphale’s lips again, Aziraphale pushed his shoulders back to pin him to the wall. He used the second of surprise to reach up and take the glasses off of Crowley’s face, and dropped them on the table near the door where Crowley usually dumped his wallet and keys when he got home.

“So beautiful.” He muttered again, an echo of what had led to their first kiss, and it had the same effect on Crowley this time. He surged forward and kissed him again, and Aziraphale made a mental note to remind Crowley of how beautiful he was every day for the rest of their existences.

He deserved to know.

Aziraphale stopped it before it got too far, when Crowley’s hands dropped to Aziraphale’s belt.

“Darling boy…” He whispered, trying to think of a way to say ‘not tonight’ that wouldn’t sound like a flat-out rejection. He didn’t want to reject him. He just…

Well, he didn’t want to go too fast.

He didn’t seem to need to say anything more though. Crowley’s hands moved back up to circle around Aziraphale’s waist, and his head dropped against Aziraphale’s shoulder, holding him close but not trying for any more.

“It’s okay…” He mumbled against Aziraphale’s shoulder. “We don’t have to do anything tonight. We don’t have to do anything _ever_ if you don’t want to. It’s okay. This is enough.”

And damn, Crowley sounded so earnest and truthful when he said that. He really did feel like that. He really didn’t care, despite Aziraphale’s perception of him being that of someone who had used sex to tempt and corrupt others before, and most likely very much enjoyed that part of earthly pleasures, he was willing to take a pass if that’s what Aziraphale wanted. Although he should have guessed that Crowley would never try to corrupt or tempt him in any serious way. They both joked about Crowley tempting him, a lot. But they knew he would never actually try to push Aziraphale into something he wasn’t comfortable with. He respected him too much not to respect his boundaries as well.

“I love you, Crowley.” Aziraphale sighed in response, pressing close to cover Crowley’s body with his own, so Crowley was snug between Aziraphale in front of him and the wall at his back. “My wily serpent.”

“I love you too, Aziraphale.” Crowley smiled against Aziraphale’s shoulder, tightening his arms around him to keep him just as close. “Bastard Angel.”

That made him laugh, even if Crowley hadn’t intended for that reaction. He laughed against Crowley’s neck and held him tight, and Crowley laughed into the embrace too.

Soon they found themselves in Crowley’s bed. Aziraphale had certainly thought it comfortable the night before when he had been exhausted, but now that he was slightly more awake he thought it was even better. The best part however, the part that made this the best place in the entire universe to be, was the fact that Crowley was wrapped up in the sheets with him, his head on Aziraphale’s chest and his arm draped over Aziraphale’s stomach as he breathed soft and deep breaths out against his shirt.

Crowley was asleep quickly, and while he slept Aziraphale gently moved his arm so that he could see his wrists, where the ropes he had been tied up with in Hell had chafed and bruised. Aziraphale had meant to fix it before he gave his body back, but he had fallen asleep as soon as he got to the apartment, then he had been too preoccupied with seeing Crowley again. The bruises were still there, which meant that it was highly likely that Crowley hadn’t even noticed them yet, or he would have gotten rid of them himself.

They couldn’t heal themselves in the sense of fixing broken bones or stopping bleeding, getting rid of diseases or stopping the death of their human bodies, but bruises were just minor bleeding below the skin’s surface leading to discolouration. It was easy to rearrange the blood molecules underneath in order to make that colour go away. Aziraphale did so, then lifted Crowley’s wrist to press a kiss there, before placing it back down where it had been resting on Aziraphale’s stomach.

He had never been a fan of sleep, but with Crowley curled up around him like this, there wasn’t much else he could do. Besides, Crowley had been right; maybe a little unnecessary Sloth would do him some good. Especially with his own personal heated blanket in the shape of the love of his life draped over him. And Crowley looked content enough.

Aziraphale pressed a kiss to Crowley’s forehead, his heart melting just a little more when Crowley smiled in his sleep, then closed his eyes and allowed himself to fall asleep too.

The first day of the rest of their lives had been truly wonderful, and Aziraphale couldn’t wait for many more to come; many more meals out with Crowley, many more hugs and kisses, and being able to fall asleep wrapped up in his demon.

Aziraphale rarely dreamed on the occasions when he did sleep, but that night he did.

He dreamed of champagne and sweet piano melodies, soft fiery hair, golden eyes, and love-stricken smiles.

He dreamed of _their side._

And the angel had never felt happier.


End file.
